American History Loud
by Flagg1991
Summary: Lincoln becomes a neo-Nazi in jail, causing friction with his family. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. Date of Release

On August 18, Lincoln Loud walked out of the Michigan State Youth Reformatory after six long months. He wore a white tank top and a pair of jeans. He held a backpack stuffed with all his worldly possessions. A guard waited with him. The guard, a fat white cuck named Joe, occasionally glanced at the spidery swastika tattoo on Lincoln's scrawny arm. Lincoln knew he wanted to say something, and Lincoln fucking _dared_ him.

The tattoo was a going away present. Charlie, who did ink, gave it to him for free. "You need a badge out there," Charlie said. He, Lincoln, and a few other memebers of the Aryan Brotherhood were in Lincoln's cell. It was late, after lights out, and the only sounds were the snoring of other inmates and the whirr of industrial fans. Every once in a while, a guard strolled by and pretended not to notice them. His name was Josh, and he was secretly a Nazi too, so he let them do what they wanted.

"It would be an honor," Lincoln said, rolling up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. He loved Charlie and the others like they were blood. After all, it was they who had awakened him to the plight of his Race, to the damage being done by liberals, Jews, blacks, feminists, Muslims, and Mexicans. Before them, he went through life like a sheep, now he was a soldier, a warrior, part of the Fourth Reich's vanguard. He had a purpose, a mission.

"So you and this darkie Clyde stole some candy, and he let you take all the blame," Charlie said way back when he first approached Lincoln and asked him why he was in.

"Well," Lincoln started, "it wasn't..."

Charlie just shook his head. "Really sad. What kind of friend does that?"

Lincoln volunteered to take the blame. But once he started thinking about it, it _was_ kind of messed up. Clyde just let him do it. Shows who the _real_ friend in that relationship was.

From there, Lincoln slowly woke to the fact that he was a cuck. His Mexican girlfriend treated him like a punching bag, his black friend wasn't a friend at all, and his every move was governed by a coven of women. He was the very definition of a cuck.

But now, things were different. He was awake.

And he was angry.

"I think that's your family," the guard said.

In the distance, a van appeared on the long dirt road leading to the prison, kicking up dust in its wake.

"Probably," Lincoln said, hefting the bookbag over his shoulder. "That means I'm out."

The van paused as the front gate opened, and then drove into the parking lot, pulling to a stop at the curb. The side door flew open, and Luan stuck her head out. "Lincoln!" she cried happily. Luna and Lynn appeared next to her.

"See ya," Lincoln told the guard. "Cuck."

Lincoln climbed into the van and tossed his bag onto the floor. He hugged each one of his sisters in turned.

"We missed you so much, Lincy," Leni said.

"I missed you guys too," Lincoln said, honestly. Even though they ran over top of him and treated him like a common dish rag, they were still his family.

He plopped into a seat by the window next to Lisa. "What's up, geek?" he said, and gave her a noogie. She shook her head and slapped his arm.

"I'll thank you not to do that."

Lincoln chuckled and did it again. "Love you too, sis."


	2. Your Family is Not Your Enemy

"What's that on your arm?" Lori asked, leaning over the back of the seat.

They were following US15 through a rush of flat, sunbaked farmland. Lincoln had been gazing out the window, watching barns, silos, and dilapidated farmhouses flash by. This part of Michigan was remote and sparsely populated.

"It's a tattoo," Lincoln said.

Mom turned in her seat, a look of horror on her face. "You got a tattoo?" 

"Yep," Lincoln said.

"Of what?"

"A swastika," Lisa said, "the primary symbol of the German Nazi Party."

Silence filled the van. "Why is there a Nazi symbol on your arm?" dad asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

"It's a badge," Lincoln said. "It shows my dedication to the White Race."

More silence. The tension was so thick you'd need something bigger than a knife to cut it.

"Not cool, bro," Lynn said.

That did it. Lincoln whipped around and faced her. "You know what's not cool? The fact that our country is being taken over by niggers, spics, and kikes. You know what's not cool? The fact that the White American is being systematically exterminated both culturally and socially. You know what's not cool? That Whites are being told that they are wrong for existing and that they should hate themselves and mix with niggers and spics to breed away their horrible whiteness. That's not cool."

Shocked silence.

"Lincoln!" mom gasped.

"It's true, mom. Watch the news once in a while. Our country is going to hell in a handbasket."

Lincoln turned back to the window. "And some of us actually care."

Lisa sighed and shook her head. "Your line of reasoning is highly illogical."

"Is he joking?" Luan asked. "Because it's not funny."

"I wish it was a joke," Lincoln said, "but mark my words, unless we stand up for ourselves, the Jews and the liberals will eventually exterminate us."

"Like Hitler did to the Jews?" Lisa asked pointedly.

"That's a lie," Lincoln said. "Hitler realized what the Jews were and he wanted them out of Germany, but he didn't kill them. The Communists did to frame him. The Holocaust never happened."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," mom said, throwing up her hands.

"Neither could I, but it eventually sunk in," Lincoln said. "We're at war. Our white skin is our uniform."

While his sisters talked to each other in hushed, shocked tones, Lincoln went back to looking out the window. His heart was pounding. He knew his family would react poorly at first. It was a learning process. They would come around. But like Charlie warned him: Coming out is the hardest part. People had been brainwashed by the liberal Jewish media to believe that good, hardworking, moral white men were the enemy, and that the queers and Muslims working toward the degradation of America were the good guys. It was enough to make him sick.

His family wasn't his enemy, though. He had to keep that in mind. They were victims of the Zionist Occupational Government. He would save them.

"Can you put the radio on?" Lincoln asked.

Mom silently turned the radio on. Some trashy black pop song emanated from the speakers, hurting Lincoln's head. "Put it on FM 89.9"

Mom did, and the soothing voice of Rush Limbaugh filled the van. "Ahhh," Lincoln said, "that's better."

"Nope," mom said, and turned it off.

"Hey!" Lincoln flashed. "I was listening to that!"

"Not in this van you aren't. That man is a lying fearmonger."

Lincoln laughed. "You wanna see a lying fearmonger, watch Oprah or The View. They're anti-white, anti-Christian, and anti-American. Rush Limbaugh is none of those things."

"No," mom said.

Lincoln seethed.

 _Your family is not your enemy...your family is not your enemy..._


	3. The Fuhrerbunker

Lincoln Loud opened his bedroom door and stopped, momentarily taken about by it. It had been six months since he saw it last, and in that time, he had changed so much that seeing it now was like seeing someone else's room, someone he didn't know and didn't _want_ to know, the room of a little boy whose mind was clouded by Jewish propaganda.

He thought back to the boy he was six months ago, and shuddered. He was weak then. Now he was strong.

Tossing his bag onto the bed, Lincoln went to the Ace Savvy poster above his bed and ripped it down, balling it up and throwing it to the floor. Next he grabbed a stack of comic books from a shelf and shoved them under the bed. He grabbed it bag, opened it up, and took out a poster Charlie had given him. When it was up, proudly displayed over his bed, he stepped back and admired it: Adolf Hitler, gazing slightly off-page as if at a bright future, his hand on his hip. Lincoln's eyes welled with tears of pride. Here was the savior of the White Race, the only leader in all of history who dared to tell the truth and set about making things right. A great, glorious, noble man who was cut down by Jews, Bolsheviks, homosexuals, and western race traitors. The unfairness of it turned Lincoln's stomach.

With a heavy sigh, he snapped off a Roman salute. _Heil,_ he thought, the tears coming quicker. _Heil._

Shaking his head, he rummaged in his bag again and brought out a framed photo of George Lincoln Rockwell, founder of the American Nazi Party. Lincoln knew that he was not named after Rockwell, but he took special pride in carrying the same name regardless. He reached into the bag and came out with a thick hardback book. _Mein Kampf_ by Adolf Hitler. He followed that with a slender paperback. _Why Only The KKK Can Save America._ He sat these on the shelf above his bed.

"Knock, knock."

Lincoln turned. Luan stood in the doorway, looking hesitant. She looked from Lincoln to the poster over the bed, and her eyes widened.

"Cool, uh, cool poster."

"Thanks," Lincoln said, glancing at it over his shoulder. "That poster got me through some tough days."

"Wow," she said, rubbing her arm. "That's great. Look, I just wanted to say...I missed you, you know?" She looked over his shoulder. "Just between you and me, you're my favorite."

"Really?"

She nodded. "You're always there when I need you. You're a great brother and I love you."

He came forward and they hugged. "I love you too."

A couple minutes after Luan left, Luna came in. "Oh, rockin' poster, dude," she said, sounding taken aback.

"It was a gift," Lincoln said. "It helps me keep focused on what's important."

"Great. I missed you dude. I'm glad you're back."

"Thanks."

Over the next hour, each one of his sisters came to him individually and welcomed him back, telling him they loved him, that they were glad he was home, that he was a great person etc, etc, etc. At first it warmed his heart, but by the time Lori, the last, left, he was beginning to think they had ulterior motives. It felt almost like there were trying to remind him of who he was and "cure" him of his Nazism. Or was he just paranoid? He was used to being constantly on his toes. In prison you could never let your guard down. Everyone had a con, or a bone to pick, or wanted something. Surely he wouldn't have to worry about that in his own home, right?

No, he was being paranoid, he decided. He whipped out his laptop and went to Google. A few minutes later, he exited the browser, having ordered some things for his room. In the kitchen, he grabbed an apple from a bowl on the table and watched as dad started getting dinner ready. He was wearing a frilly pink apron, and Lincoln realized for the first time that he own father was a fucking disgusting cuck.

"I like your apron," Lincoln said.

"Thanks, son," dad chirruped, totally missing the sarcasm in Lincoln's voice.

"You know something?"

"What's that?"

"Mom treats you like a woman."

Dad blinked and stopped what he was doing. "What?"

"Mom treats you like a woman. I mean look at you, you're prancing around the kitchen in a pink apron while she's sitting on the couch with her feet up. You're practically a housewife. What kind of man _are_ you?"

Dad tried to reply but couldn't. He looked shocked.

"It's sickening. You need to grow a pair and stop being such a push-over."

"Lincoln Loud," dad finally said.

"You're a henpecked cuck..."

"Lincoln! Go to your room this instant!"

Lincoln took one final bite of his apple and tossed the core onto the floor. "Alright. See you, mom."

Upstairs, a couple of packages were sitting on his bed. He loved same hour delivery.

He opened one of them, and pulled out a large red and white flag with a big black swastika in the center. He hung it on his wall. From another package, he retrieved a blanket featuring a _Reichsadler_ emblem: A German eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. He happily made the bed and admired his room. From now on, he would call it _the fuhrerbunker_.


	4. Dinner with a Nazi

Lincoln was sitting on his bed and rereading the opening chapter of _Mein Kampf_ when a knock came at the door.

"Yeah," he called without looking up.

The door opened and someone came in. "Do you mind telling me what that was about?" mom asked.

"What what was about?" Lincoln asked, turning the page.

"Lincoln Loud, look at me."

Lincoln sighed and looked up. Mom was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed. "What you said to your father."

Lincoln shrugged. "I told him he acts like a cuck."

"What _is_ that?"

"A man like dad."

"Lincoln..."

"Come on, mom. He flits around in a pink apron like a woman. He wouldn't last five minutes on the inside."

"This isn't the 'inside' Lincoln, this is our home, and if your father wants to wear a pink apron, why shouldn't he?"

"It's embarrassing," Lincoln said.

Mom shook her head. "Dinner's almost ready. Wash up."

She left, and Lincoln sighed. Maybe it _was_ wrong to go after dad like that. It wasn't his fault that he had been conditioned that acting like a woman was acceptable. His family was not his enemy. He had to remember that. They needed him now more than ever, and he had to show them the right way. Starting fights with them wouldn't do that. It would push them away.

He sat aside his book and laid back on the bed. He thought of the challenges facing the White Race, and shivered with rage. It was easy to get angry and hopeless. When he got like this, he closed his eyes and thought of Germany and how beautiful it was during the thirties and forties.

It's not about hate, Charlie told him, it's about _love,_ love for your people, love for your race. The White Man could get along with the lesser races just fine. It was the mud people, the filth, the animals, who couldn't get along with the White Man, because they envied the power, wisdom, and wealth of the White Race. That's why the Jews wanted to overthrow Europe. That's why blacks wanted to move into white neighborhoods and drive them into the ground. Spite.

But one day, things would be right. White children would be able to play in the streets without having to worry about child molesters preying on them, they could go to concerts without being blown up, they could have things without little black kids stealing them. Lincoln sighed. It was going to be wonderful.

With a glance up at Hitler, Lincoln got up, went to the bathroom, and washed his hands. Downstairs, dad was just setting the table.

"Hey, dad," Lincoln said. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I guess...it's just an adjustment. You know?"

"I understand," dad said, "and no hard feelings."

"You need some help?"

"Sure."

Lincoln grabbed glasses from the kitchen and sat one next to each plate. His sisters started filtering in, Lola and Lana first, then Lucy, then Lisa. When everyone was present, they sat.

"Would you like to say grace tonight, Lincoln?" dad asked.

"Sure," Lincoln said, folding his hands and bowing his head. The others followed.

"Dear Lord, thank you for the food we are about to eat, and thank you for the bravery of White Men across the country. Thank you for Adolf Hitler and thank you for the Ku Klux Klan. Amen."

No one said 'amen.' Mom glared at him, but didn't speak. Lori looked disgusted. Luan, bless her heart, did her best to lighten the mood: "I did _Nazi_ that coming."

"W-Well, let's eat," dad said.

Lincoln dug in, He had never liked his father's beans and franks before, but after six months of prison slop, it might as well have been manna fallen from the sky. As he ate, his sisters talked. Luna about an upcoming talent show, Luan about her comedy website. Lisa was on the verge of another scientific breakthrough, and Lana was in the middle of rebuilding the engine block of a '68 Mustang. It struck Lincoln that his absence had ultimately made no difference to his siblings. While he was in a cell, they went on with their lives as though nothing had happened. Of course that was to be expected. What else were they to do, dress in black and mourn? Still, for right or wrong, it hurt.

"After dinner I'm going over to Bobby's," Lori said.

Lincoln choked on a piece of hotdog.

"You alright?" Lana asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, swallowing. He didn't expect Lori and Bobby to be broken up, but he'd hoped for it. The thought of his sister touching and kissing a dirty spic made him sick.

"Maybe Lincoln can come with," Lori said, almost as if she had read his mind, "I'm sure Ronnie Ann would be happy to see him. He just has to cover up that... _thing_ on his arm."

"Oh," mom said, looking at him, "that would be nice. She missed you almost as much as we did."

"No, thanks," Lincoln said, scooping up a forkful of beans.

"Why not?" dad asked.

 _Because she's a dirty fucking Mexican, that's why._ Instead, he said, "I'm just tired, is all. I'm used to being up at 5:30 and being in bed by 7:30. I'll see her tomorrow."

"I'm sure Clyde would like to see you too," mom said.

Lincoln tensed. Clyde. The so called "friend" who let him take all the blame, who let him paddle up the river for six months without so much as a second thought. The last thing Lincoln wanted to see now was Clyde's nappy-hair ass. No to mention his two homo dads.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "that'd be great."

After dinner, Lincoln helped clear the table, and watched as Lori left through the front door, his grip tightening so much that a glass shattered in his hand.

"You okay, Linc?" Luan asked from the kitchen. "I heard something break."

Lincoln bit his bottom lip and looked at his hand. Several shallow cuts crisscrossed his hand. That was fine. He could live with that. What he couldn't live with was knowing that his sister was probably on her way to suck some Mexican's dick.

"Linc?"

"I'm fine," Lincoln said. He went into the kitchen and threw the shards into the trash. "Just a little cut."

"Let me see."

Luan came over and took his hand in hers. She studied the wounds. "I'll get you a Band-Aid and some disinfectant."

"I'm fine, really. I'll get it myself."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Upstairs, Lincoln washed his hand in the bathroom sink, dabbed some Neosporin on the cuts, and slapped a Band-Aid on it. He closed the medicine cabinet and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked as angry as he felt. Of all the men in town, Lori had to pick a wetback. Why? Why couldn't she choose a nice, upstanding white man? It was disgusting.

On his way back to his room, Lucy poked her head into the hall. "Lincoln, can you listen to my new poem?"

"Not right now," Lincoln said, "I have a lot on my mind."

"Oh. Okay."

He didn't see the look of disappointment on her face.


	5. We Need to Talk About Lincoln

An hour after dinner, the Loud girls gathered in Lisa's room. Lori was the only one not present.

For a long time, Lisa sat at her desk, looking at the faces of her sisters. She saw worry, concern, fear, and, yes, even pain. They each – herself included – loved their brother dearly.

"I know Lincoln's current state is shocking," she said, "and, yes, even off-putting. I know none of us really know how to deal with it. I don't. Not entirely, at least. I have a theory."

"What is it?" Lynn asked.

Lisa took a deep breath. "Lincoln was put into a...very taxing set of circumstances. He was isolated from his family and put into a prison. I believe that his newfound white supremacism stems from the fact that the only people he was able to connect with there were racists themselves."

"He hung out with racists?" Luan asked.

"I don't know," Lisa said, "but it would make sense. He was scared and alone. If a couple of racists extended their hands to him in friendship, he may have subconsciously adopted their views as a way of maintaining that relationship. He thinks he honestly believes in the bile he's spewing, but deep down, he doesn't. He's not a racist. He's a frightened child who adapted to jail life in an admittedly horrible way. What we are seeing is the Lincoln Loud who had no one but hate filled bigots to relate to. It's a known fact that if we like and respect someone, we adopt some of their characteristics. I think Lincoln admired and respected the wrong people because they were there for him when no one else was. This, as far as I've read, is how street gangs get ahold of the impressionable. They offer friendship and family."

"He has a family," Luna said, and everyone else agreed.

"I know that, and somewhere under all the faux Nazi ideology, he knows that too. We must remember that he has been out less than twenty-four hours. I hope that he'll adjust and shed this abhorrent nonsense. What we need to do is help facilitate that. No matter how odious his opinions, do not argue with him. On the flip side, do not feign interest in his beliefs. Ignore them completely. Go out of your way to show him that you love him for who he is, and he _should_ come around."

"I hate seeing him like this," Luna said. "He looks miserable."

"Yeah," Lana added, "it makes me sad."

"I want the old Lincoln back," Lola added, looking dejectedly at her lap. "I missed him so much, and I was so excited when we picked him up, but this isn't Lincoln."

"Luna's right," Lucy said, "he's miserable."

"I know that," Lisa said. "And we all love him. We just have to make sure _he_ knows that. Include him in your activities (or at least offer to include him). Do nice things for him."

Two rooms over, Lincoln Loud strapped on a pair of black combat boots with red laces and climbed out his window. The boots' treads left little swastikas in the soft earth.

He found his bike in the garage, shoved into a dusty back corner like a bad memory. He walked it to the driveway, climbed on, and started pedaling toward Bobby's house. The sky was a soft purple and the heat of the day had lessened. The screaming laughs of playing children salted the mild air.

As he rode, he tried to think of Bobby sticking his dirty Mexican tongue down Lori's throat, but his thoughts kept returning to his bike, covered in cobwebs and tossed carelessly in a corner. Who did it? Was it dad? Did he feel anything as he did it? Or did he do it with casual indifference?

Did his sisters _really_ miss him? Maybe. Maybe. But life went on, just like it would if he died. There would be tears at first, but in a little while, those would dry and things would get back to normal. He wondered if Charlie and the others missed him. He thought that they did. Charlie even told him the night before he left that he would, and made Lincoln promise to write. Would their lives get back to normal, or would there forever be a Lincoln shaped hole there?

A car honked its horn. Lincoln came awake and realized that he was biking down the middle of the street. The car honked again, and Lincoln threw a middle finger up as he rode up onto the sidewalk.

Two miles up, he cut through a stand of trees and came out onto Bobby's street. A block away, he hopped off his bike and walked it the rest of the way, leaning it against a bush. A group of black kids played across the street. He didn't like leaving his things unattended around niggers, since they always stole, but these ones were young, five, six, or seven. Their parents hadn't taught them the finer points of niggatry.

From the street, Lincoln stalked along a fence running between Bobby's yard and a vacant lot. At the end, he ducked through a small hole. Bobby's house was an unkempt little bungalow with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn. Just like a lazy Mexican to let their home fall apart. Moving in a crouch, hoping the dusk was deep enough to conceal him, he passed through the backyard and came out in the side yard. He crept to a window he knew looked into Bobby's room and raised his head over the sill. There was a gap between the sill and the blinds just wide enough to allow him a view. Lori was lying prone on Bobby's bed, writing something in a notebook. Bobby was sitting in a chair, facing her, while also writing. With a sigh, he threw his head back.

"I _hate_ summer school."

"If you pass this test, you'll be all done," Lori said.

"Yeah, but regular school starts in, like, a week."

"You should have studied harder last year."

Bobby had to go to summer school? Hahaha. Dumb spic. Lori was right, Bob-O; you should have applied yourself.

When Bobby got up and moved onto the bed, Lincoln tensed. Bobby ran his hand up her back, and she shivered. "Stop," she giggled, "you have to study."

"I know. Can't we take a break, though?"

"No! You have to pass this test. Focus."

The dirty bastard was touching _his_ sister with his dirty, greasy, brown hands. Lincoln seethed. He couldn't watch anymore. He'd lose his mind if he did.

He pushed away from the window and reached the corner of the house just as someone started coming around from the other side. Lincoln's heart lept into his throat. All he saw was a flash of brown skin, and in that moment knew he was about to be beaten and robbed.

"Lincoln?"

It was Ronnie Ann. She clutched her breast with her hand and panted.

"You scared the hell out of me!"

Lincoln opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"Lori said you were tired. What are you doing here?" She smiled. "Not that it isn't good to see you." She punched him on the arm. "How was jail?"

"Uh..." he mentally scrambled for something to say. "I have to go."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sorry."

He started past her.

"What's that on your arm? Is that a tattoo? Cool!"

"No," he said, covering it with his hand. "It's a bruise."

He practically ran to his bike, and could feel Ronnie Ann's gaze on his back as he pedaled away. On the way home, he went over the encounter in his mind again and again. He thought back to her big brown eyes and the way she smiled when she saw him, he thought of the playful punch and the playful "how was jail" comment. He imagined calling her a spic, and the hurt he imaged he would see in her face made his heart beat faster.

Instead of going home, he biked to Carl's Ice Cream on Route 9 and got a vanilla cone, which he ate sitting on one of the picnic tables. He thought back to the time before he went away that he bonded with Bobby, how he once thought of his as the big brother he had never had. His stomach fluttered, and he threw away his ice cream in disgust. At what, he couldn't say.

When he got home, he went up to his room and tried to lose himself in a video game.


	6. White Warrior

Lincoln Loud woke before dawn on the morning of August 19. He was groggy because he stayed up until the ungodly hour of ten, but he forced himself up anyway: Lying in bed all day like a nigger appealed to him as little as shoving nails in his eyes.

He started with a crisp Roman salute to his Hitler poster, then found some WWII German marching music on YouTube, which he listened to as he jogged in place. After counting to a thousand, he dropped and did twenty push-ups. It was his responsibility as a White Warrior to keep in peak physical condition. The fat, bulging wastes of space spilling over the sides of their Hoverrounds were enemies to the White Race just as much as Jews and blacks. How anyone could let themselves devolve into such a disgusting state was beyond him.

When he was sweaty and his muscles ached, he hit the shower. He was perturbed to see that his shampoo was gone, removed during his six month absence, probably thrown away like trash. He refused to use any girl shampoo, so he just went without.

Someone knocked on the door. "Are you going to be done soon?"

It was Lori.

"No," he called back. He was almost done, but there was no way in hell he was going to revert to the cringing, servile cuck he was before. No more scurrying through life because a woman wanted to use the bathroom.

To his surprise, she said, "Okay," and that was that.

To assert his dominance, he stayed in for another ten minutes. During that time, his mind turned to Ronnie Ann. He fondly recalled the soft curve of her face, the sparkle in her eye. He then thought of Bobby.

Shaking his head, he got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and went out into the hall. Lori was standing by the door with her arms crossed. When he came out, she smiled, "Morning, bro."

"Good morning," Lincoln said, raising one eyebrow. He expected her to be bitchy about not getting her way.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Okay."

"Good."

In his room, he dressed in a uniform of black pants, a brown short sleeved shirt, and his combat boots. He took a red swastika armband out of his dresser and slipped it onto his right arm. He admired himself in the mirror. He'd probably take the armband off before he went downstairs because mom and dad would flip, but he wanted his sisters to see him in it before. They deserved to see what a proud White Man looked like.

It was barely six, and breakfast wasn't typically served until after eight (unless they shook up the schedule while he was gone, which wouldn't have surprised him), so he decided to stretch his morning devotionals until seven. He read a few chapters from _Mein Kampf_ and another from _The Life and Times of a Racist_ , a thin paperback featuring a black and white photo of a klansman, his hood pushed back to reveal his face. At 6:45, he reached under his bed and retrieved one of the Ace Savvy comics. A man can't get by on Nazism alone, after all.

At 7:00, he went out into the hall. Luna and Lynn were waiting by the bathroom door. Luan was just coming out of her room. Lola and Lana were bickering about something. When he came out of his room, they all looked up. Luan blinked, and Lynn looked quickly away. Lincoln thought he saw Luna shake her head, and steeled himself for a stupid remark.

"Morning, Linc," Luan said.

"Good morning," Lincoln said.

"Uh, good morning," Lynn said without looking at him.

"Good morning."

The bathroom door opened, and Leni came out. "Good morning, Lincy," she said, seeming not to notice how he was dressed.

"Good morning."

For a moment, no one moved even though the bathroom door stood open, steam from Leni's shower still rolling out. "Bathroom's free," Lincoln said.

Lynn slipped in and hurriedly shut the door.

Satisfied that they had seen his pride, he went back into his room and changed into a black T-shirt. He got to the table just as the others were starting to come down the stairs.

"Morning, sweetie," mom said. "How was your first night back?"

"It was good," Lincoln said.

"That's nice."

Breakfast was the usual circus. Lincoln ate in silence, planning his day. The arcade sounded nice. Then maybe he'd grab a slice of pizza for lunch, then wrap up by paying that greedy old bastard Flip a visit. Lincoln didn't know if Flip was Jewish, but he was tight-fisted enough. He made a mental note to bring a marker with him so he could draw swastikas wherever he went.

With breakfast done, he went upstairs, grabbed a marker and a retractable baton he'd ordered the day before (just in case any minorities needed a crack in the head), and came back downstairs. Dad was putting away the dishes.

"Do you mind if I go out for a while?"

"Sure, son. Where you going?"

"The arcade, then maybe Flip's."

"Alright. Be back by dinner."

"Sure."

Outside, he climbed on his bike and rode it north along Franklin Ave. The sun was already bright, and the morning air was already hot. At the intersection of Franklin and Main, he turned right and followed Main for a mile before turning onto Oak. The arcade was at the end of the street, at the outer edge of a bad neighborhood. This fact was made painfully obvious by the loud bass heavy sound of jungle music emanating from a battered Caddy parked at the curb. A black man sat behind the wheel, and another stood in the street, his arms crossed, blocking the flow of traffic. Lincoln's grip tightened on the handlebars. Look at that spook, standing in the street like he owned it. And that music! It was eight-thirty in the morning!

Already mad, Lincoln parked his bar around the side and went in. Since the place just opened for the day, it was relatively empty. He bought a fountain soda from the snack bar and sought out _Master Blaster,_ his favorite game. He played three rounds before he finished his soda and tossed the empty onto the floor. He played _Ms. Pac-Man, S.T.U.N Runner,_ and _Crusin' USA_ before hitting the bathroom. He chose the far stall, and when he was done pissing, he took the marker out and drew a giant swastika on the wall.

Back in the game room, he hit a few machines. _Area 51_ ate one of his quarters, and he kicked it. "Piece of shit!"

Sighing, he turned, and there, across the room, was Clyde, his so-called friend. He was standing in line for _Master Blaster_ , his hands in his pockets and his gaze downcast. He looked up, saw Lincoln, and smiled.

Oh, God.

"Lincoln!" He jumped and waved.

Fuck this. Lincoln turned and started for the door.

"Hey, Lincoln, wait up!"

Lincoln went through the door and out into the hot morning. "Hey, Lincoln!"

Lincoln spun around, his hands balled into fists. "Leave me alone, Clyde. I don't have shit to say to you."

Clyde winced. "Why?"

"It's your fault I spent six months of my life in prison. It was _your_ idea to steal that candy, and you let _me_ take the heat. You're a piece of scum sucking nigger shit. Fuck you."

Clyde looked wounded. He took a step forward. "Linc..."

Lincoln threw a punch. It caught Clyde in the nose and knocked him to the ground. Clyde sat in a heap, blood trickling down his lip. Lincoln suddenly wanted to make him eat the curb, but instead he shook his head, made a disgusted noise, and left, climbing on his bike and riding away.

It wasn't until an hour later, while he ate pizza at _Mario's_ and gazed absently out the window that he started to feel guilty. Maybe Clyde had it coming, but the look in his tearful eyes as he looked up from the ground, his lips covered in blood, bothered Lincoln. Even though things were different now, there was a time when he and Clyde had been best friends. Almost like brothers. God, they'd been friends since kindergarten. Then Clyde let him take the blame. It was ultimately Lincoln's fault for being a spineless, servile cuck, but deep down, even then, he knew that he would never have been able to stand by while Clyde did the same. How could Clyde do so and still say he was Lincoln's friend?

Still, the hurt look in his eyes...

Lincoln shook his head. He tossed the rest of his pizza in the trash and biked over to Flip's. The old man was behind the counter when Lincoln entered.

"Hey, I know you," Flip said, "you stole something in town. You better not steal anything of mine."

Lincoln stiffened. "I'm not gonna steal anything, old man. Calm your ass."

"You better not."

Lincoln reached into his pocket and touched the baton. It wasn't worth it, though.

Lincoln got a slushie and a candy bar. Outside, he finished the slushie and half of the candy bar, then climbed on his bike and rode off. Maybe he'd go to the park. He liked the park.


	7. Dinner with a Mexican

Lincoln returned home at half past two that afternoon. He spent several hours at the park, first walking around and enjoying the boundless freedom, then dozing in the shade of an old oak tree. Though his rest was fitful, he dreamed. Of Clyde. Of Ronnie Ann. Of Bobby and Charlie and the black kids who picked on him in jail. He woke up angry, and rode around town to work off some of the energy.

The house was quiet. The van was gone from the driveway. He assumed that his family must have gone somewhere. He checked his phone several times, but saw no texts.

 _They couldn't even bother to tell me_ , he thought angrily. Upstairs, he closed his door, gave Hitler a salute, then passed the rest of the afternoon reading, first from _Mein Kampf,_ then from an Ace Savvy comic. He forgot how much he liked these.

At one point, someone knocked on the door. "Yeah!"

It opened, and Lori stuck her head in. "Hey, Lincoln," she said nervously, "uh, I hate to ask you this, I really do, but can you cool it on the Nazi stuff tonight? Bobby and Ronnie Ann are coming over for dinner tonight."

Lincoln's shoulders sagged. He started to say that he shouldn't have to hide his white pride, but nodded instead. "Yeah. Okay."

"Thanks," she smiled, and shut the door.

Great. Bobby and Ronnie Ann were coming to dinner. Perfect. He took a deep breath and tried to continue reading, but he couldn't focus.

He told himself that he didn't want them over because they were Mexican, but he knew that that wasn't the truth. He was afraid. He was afraid because he liked them. Bobby had always been good to him, and Ronnie Ann was cool.

 _You can hate all the nameless, faceless Mexicans you want, but you can't hate them_.

Alright. So what if he _did_ like them? You can like a member of a group without liking the group as a whole. Hell, even Hitler had a pet Jew, a Jew who got special privileges, a Jew no one could touch. This just went to show the boundless, compassionate nature of the white man. It's not like he wanted them dead or anything. He just wanted what was best for his race, and his people. Was that really so horrible? Blacks wanted for blacks, Hispanics wanted for his Hispanics. But whites wanting for whites was racist and unacceptable.

His concentration totally blown, Lincoln threw down the comic, got up, and did twenty sit-ups, trying to purge the racing thoughts from his mind. When he was done, he did a dozen push-ups. After that, he left the room and paced the empty hall. On his fifth pass, he admitted something to himself: He was excited to see Ronnie Ann again. He'd missed her. And even Bobby. He felt a twinge of guilt, but so what? He was human.

At six, just after he'd gotten settled with another comic, Lucy came in. "Dinner's ready," she said.

"Alright," Lincoln said. He got up and followed her downstairs.

He reached the dining room table just as Lori, Bobby, and Ronnie Ann entered from the living room. Bobby saw him first. "Hey, little bro! You're back!"

He lifted his hand for a high five, and Lincoln returned it. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Alright, man. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too."

"Hey, loser," Ronnie Ann said and punched his arm. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, rubbing his arm (she hit like a fucking dump truck), "I'm just...getting used to it all again."

The others filtered in, and dad put the food on the table. Bobby got the honor of saying grace, and Lincoln figured they'd never let _him_ say it again. Which made him smile.

When Bobby was done, they dug in, Lincoln focusing on the plate before him.

"So how was it?" Ronnie Ann asked.

Lincoln looked up and then back down. "How was what?"

"Jail."

"It was...it was rough."

"You totally owned it though, right, bro?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "I guess." He remembered the black kids beating him up and stealing his things, he remembered the Mexican kids tripping him in the cafeteria, he remembered the guards and their cold, hard gazes. He remembered feeling out of place, like a man trapped on an alien planet. Alone. Cold. Desperate.

"What was the worst part?" Ronnie Ann asked.

Without thinking, Lincoln said, "Being away from my family." He paused, then figured he'd gone this far, so he might as well go the rest of the way. "It was lonely. And scary. And the other kids there were really rough."

"Well, you're home now, and that' all that matters," mom said.

"And we love you very much," dad added.

Lincoln sighed. He was thoroughly depressed now. He forced the rest of his dinner down his throat then asked to be excused.

Done, he went out back and sat on the porch steps. The sky was a fiery shade of purple-tinged orange. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.

"Hey."

He jerked. Ronnie Ann sat next to him, a pained expression on her face. "I'm sorry I upset you back there."

"You didn't upset me," Lincoln said.

"Yes I did. I shouldn't have asked you about it."

Lincoln shrugged.

"Everyone really missed you," she said. " _I_ missed you."

"My family got along just fine without me."

"No they didn't. They were all messed up. Lori cried every day and no one was themselves."

Lincoln looked at her. She was gazing into the gathering twilight. "I don't know what it was like for you in there, but I think it really hurt you. You're a kind, sensitive person."

For a long time neither of them spoke. Finally, Lincoln said, "I was so scared. I was alone. My family was gone and I couldn't see them, and everyone there was so cruel. If it wasn't for my friend Charlie, I don't know if I could have made it."

"But you _did_ make it, and you're back home now. I know you're...different now. I can feel it. You're harder. But you don't have to be. You're not in jail anymore. You have a family that loves you, friends that care about you, and everything from here on out will be okay."

He smiled at her. It was sappy and stupid, but it made him feel better.

She put her arm around his shoulders, and he put his arm around hers. "So, you wanna ride bikes or something tomorrow?" she asked.


	8. Breakthrough

Lisa Loud watched from the kitchen as Ronnie and Lincoln sat arm-in-arm on the back porch. It was working, she thought. She knew that inviting Bobby and Ronnie Ann to dinner would provide Lincoln a chance to see that he didn't hate them. She wondered if it might be too early to take Lincoln aside and play therapist. She was of the mind that he would eventually come around on his own, but mother was insistent that he "talk to someone" and Lisa's assurances that Lincoln needed to work through this on his own fell on deaf ears. If Lincoln continued parading around the house like an SA brownshirt, mother would make him see a psychiatrist. If he had to talk to someone, Lisa thought, it might as well be her.

Shaking her head, she went up to her room. She sat at her desk, grabbed a psychology textbook she had been studying, and read a few paragraphs. Two days. It had been less than two days since Lincoln was released. It was absurd to expect a total transformation in that short a period, especially given Lincoln's sensitivity. Lisa suspected that Lincoln had not been acutely aware of his own sensitive nature until finding himself surrounded by hardened criminals. When this trait was mocked and held up to derision, Lincoln instinctively sought to erect a wall around it as a means of self-defense. This particular wall was draped in swastika flags, but it very well could have been decked out in Blood red or Crip blue or even ISIS black. Though she believed that evil and depravity existed on a natural level, she also believed that many people who do evil things are not themselves evil, at least not at first. They are in pain. Social pain. Economic pain. Racial pain. They were victims just as much as anyone else, for they often fell prey to shrewd conmen and warped people who _made_ them evil, who put a blue shirt or a swastika armband on them and told them to kill or steal.

Was it too early to talk to Lincoln, though? He was already making progress on his own. He needed _time._ Why didn't anyone understand that?

With a sigh, she decided that she would talk to him tonight.

-2-

Bobby and Ronnie Ann left at nine, and Lincoln wasn't afraid to admit that he was sad to see them go. He made plans to ride bikes with Ronnie Ann and to play video games with Bobby, so at least he had that to look forward to.

Upstairs, he went into his bedroom, but didn't salute Hitler. Instead, he looked at the _Fuhrer_ with a mixture of emotions.

"Lincoln, we have to talk."

Lincoln jerked and turned. Lisa was standing in the doorway, a notepad in her hands.

"About what?" Lincoln asked, guardedly.

"Just...about things. We really haven't had a chance to talk since you've been back, and that's a shame."

It was true, he supposed, but Lisa rarely ever want to "just talk."

"Sit down," Lisa said.

Yep. It was going to be something heavy. Instead of fighting, he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots. "I'm listening."

"I wanted to ask you about your time in jail. You said it was lonely and scary." 

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. It was."

"You mentioned the other kids being 'rough.' This suggests that you suffered a fair amount of bullying. Is that correct?"

"I wouldn't call it bullying," Lincoln said. "Because people who are bullied don't fight back. I did."

"Eventually."

Lincoln blinked. "Yeah," he admitted. "Not at first."

"It sounds like a terrifying place."

"It was."

"But you made friends, did you not?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Yeah. I made a few. They helped me out."

Lisa sighed. "Look, let's stop pussyfooting around. Lincoln, this Nazi act is just that, an act, and you know it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you were alone and isolated in a horrible environment and the only people who showed you any amount of kindness were racist white men. You were alone and scared and they extended their hand to you."

Lincoln opened his mouth to argue, but she wasn't wrong, at least not entirely. "It killed me, okay?" he finally said. "Being away from you guys, from my family. It killed me every day. I was a wreck. Then I come home and you guys are going on like nothing ever happened. If it was one of you gone, I don't know if I could take it. No one seemed to care."

"That's nonsense, Lincoln, everyone cared. That's why we wrote you letters and called you on the phone. No one was happy while you were gone. We felt lost and out of place. The same as you."

"You were cut off from your family, Lincoln, so you found a surrogate family with Nazi sympathizers. I can't say I blame you. I've never been incarcerated, obviously, but from what I've read, it's common for people of a race to stick together, and it's common for gangs to take on familial roles. You need to understand that. You're family never left you. We were here all along, just like we always will be."

Lincoln closed his eyes. Felt the storm brewing. He tried to hold it back, but couldn't: He broke down and wept.

"It was so hard," he sobbed.

Lisa patted him on the back. "I know. And it was hard for us."

"Every day was a misery. I was so scared...and...and I missed you so much."

Lisa hugged him. Tears now streamed down her face as well. "I missed you too."

"So did I."

Lincoln looked up. Luna smiled weakly. Behind her, the others were a huddled crowd.

"Me too," Leni said.

"Me three!" Luan.

"We all did, bro," Lynn said.

Lincoln cried harder, and his sisters came to him, and cried with him.


	9. It's a Start

_Lincoln Loud pitched forward and fell, his tray spilling across the cold tile floor, bits of corn, meat, and green beans fanning forth. "Lol, ese!" the Mexican cried, and the other Mexicans at his table erupted in laughter._

 _They got him. Again. For a moment he laid there, too humiliated and angry to move._

" _Hey, man, you alright?"_

 _Lincoln looked up. A tall, thin boy with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes stood over him, a look of concern on his face._

" _Yeah, I'm okay."_

 _The boy helped Lincoln up. The Mexicans were still laughing._

" _You're real funny, you fucking spics," the boy said. The Mexican who tripped Lincoln stood up._

" _Yeah, come on, wetback," the boy said, throwing his hands up. A guard stepped in between them._

" _Move it along."_

" _Come on," the boy said, patting him on the back, "you can sit with me and my friends."_

 _The boy led him to a table against the wall. A group of white boys were eating their lunch and talking. "What's your name?" the boy asked as they approached._

" _Lincoln."_

" _Nice to meet you, Lincoln. I'm Charlie. You're new here, right?"_

" _Y-Yeah."_

 _Lincoln had been in the North State Juvenile Correctional Facility for two weeks, two long, miserable, frightening weeks._

" _I apologize for our spic friends over there. They don't like white people."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because we're better than they are and they know it."_

 _They reached the table. "Hey, guys, this is Lincoln."_

 _Each one greeted him warmly._

" _That's George, that's Brad, that's Zack, that's Tyler, and that's Jimmy. We hang out and watch each other's backs. You guys mind sparing some of your lunch? Those wetbacks made him drop his."_

 _Without a word of protest, each member of the group passed a little food to Lincoln until he had a full lunch in front of him._

" _Thanks," he said, "I really appreciate it."_

" _No problem. We white men have to stick together."_

 _As they ate, Charlie told him about Nazism. "We're not about hating lesser races, we're about loving our own race and doing what's right for them. Unfortunately, the lesser races hate us, so what are we gonna do?"_

 _Lincoln saw truth in that. In the two weeks that he had been there, the only two groups who messed with him were blacks and Hispanics. On his first day there, a black boy knocked into him and cut in line. Lincoln thought the bump was by accident, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed it was intentional. Another black boy went into Lincoln's cell and took a honey bun he bought from the commissary. Lincoln was in the dayroom and watched it happen, but didn't try to stop him._

" _They're always doing shit like that. All you have to do is sit back and watch. They're like fucking animals. That's why we have to have each other's' backs. In here, you're alone. Your family...well, even if they love you, they move on eventually."_

 _Lincoln didn't believe that, but over time, he saw that Charlie was right. His parents came less and less, letters were fewer and far between. It was a three hour drive to the prison, he knew that, but still, it hurt him when they didn't come on visiting day. He started to feel more and more alone._

 _Except for Charlie and the others._

 _They were there for him. And he loved them for it._

-2-

Lincoln Loud kept the poster of Hitler on his wall for a long time. At first, because it symbolized something, then because it was already there. By the time school started, Hitler was just a man in a picture. He took no pride in him. He did, however, take pride in his family.

On the first day of school, he tracked Clyde down an apologized to him. "I'm sorry for calling you what I did," Lincoln said, "but I'm really not sorry for hitting you. It really hurt me that you did what you did."

"I understand," Clyde said. "I've been wracked with guilt this whole time. I feel awful."

Lincoln didn't think he'd want to be friend with Clyde again, but through the autumn, they became close again. Deep down, Lincoln was guarded. Their new friendship was tinged with just the slightest hint of distrust.

On the day before Thanksgiving, Lincoln took down the poster of Hitler and all the other Nazi memorabilia, and stuffed it all under his bed. It felt strange, and made him guilty.

He didn't overcome his racism entirely. He still bristled in the presence of blacks and Hispanics, until he got to know them. Guilty until proven innocent, maybe, but he thought he was justified. You can't just accept someone and open yourselves up to them without knowing who they were first. That included white people.

That went back, he thought, to his new hardened attitude, the one Ronnie Ann pointed out to him on his second day back. He tried to change back, but couldn't. He'd seen too much, experienced too much. He was older now and, yes, harder. Outside of his family and friends, the world was cold, hard, and unforgiving. If you made one misstep, you fell.

By the New Year, Lincoln didn't consider himself a racist anymore. He considered himself a nihilist. People would hurt you, use you, and take advantage of you no matter what color they were. People in general were awful.

But not his family. They were the one thing that anchored him. Well, them and his friends.

Good people existed, he decided, but you had to look for them. And sometimes, even good people did bad things.

It was a sad fact of life.


End file.
